Come to Play
by MariaMaria
Summary: Boo reflects on the events of Maycomb and his experiences with and by the Finch children. Decided to make this full-on story in Boo's perspective:)
1. My Children

I remember when they would come outside to play. They seemed so blissful, so innocent as they danced down the street from the schoolyard to their home. Their feelings were so easy to read, their joy illustrated with grins and dimples you could no doubt sight from across town, and disappointment with a heavy sulk that seemed enough to weigh down the neighborhood. It was as if the world they came to blindly accept was at peace, a kind of peace that would stir inside me so much hope that I could hardly sit still. A kind of peace that would almost have me jump from my windowsill and storm out my front door to embrace.

And how the sun would beam with pride upon their faces, muddied from the hours of football and horseplay they reveled in each day of summer. In all my life, I had never seen such passion and curiosity devoted into one's actions and thoughts. They were truly a sight I would and could never tire of.

But there were also the days I remember where they had no motivation in their eyes. There were days I could weep for them, and how their bliss had been stolen so abruptly from them in such an unruly manner. I remember the days they would not so much pass my home as to simply bolt along the pavement, past the sad travesty of my home. I remember how much fear they bore into their eyes as they squinted into the windows so they could see the ghost and killer once and for all. It was humorous, how they behaved as though I was a madman, a killer, a ghost even! Yes, it seemed they heard the fairytales and myths of Maycomb's Boo Radley, and of his attempted murders and strange behavior that kept him prisoner of his own home.

Yet while more often than not they tried to lure me from my windowsill with their pleading eyes, or simply gazed blindly for me from the streetlamp in the distance, I always looked back to them with warmth. Despite the fear and almost loathing they sometimes depicted, I loved them.

How could I not? _They were my children._


	2. Mere Child's Play

**sportsnightnut: **thanks for the review,it'sreallygood to know that Ihad done a rather decent depiction of Boo:)

I have decided to continue and make this a full-on story in Boo's view, though it's a bit unorganized for now... hey, english assignments are always in the works;)

* * *

I watched as Scout walk home from the schoolhouse around the corner. It was easy to tell she'd had a rough first day of school, as she pouted heavily at the dirt road and kicked at the pebbles alongside it. Suddenly she stopped just before my home, and her head snapped up in my direction. The little girl bolted along the road like lightning past my house and the neighbors', until she reached the safety of her own front porch. Once she had stopped to catch her breath, she hesitantly turned to face my home, leaning forward on her porch railing and squinting as if to better see through the dust-caked windows. She was looking for Boo. But there was no such Boo that existed on Scout's street. There was no one of Boo's kind in the Radley Place, no killer, no ghost, no maniac at the windowsill. There was only me, and she couldn't see me. After a brief scan on the little girl's part, she dashed through the front door of the Finch Place.

I didn't see Scout again for the rest of the day, though my attention was briefly caught by Jem's distant footsteps causing a sandstorm as he made like lightning to the Finch Place as well. He didn't come outside for the rest of the evening as well, but from the looks of it, his day hadn't turned out much better than Scout's.

_What was wrong with the Finch children,_ I thought. _What were their days like? Was the schoolwork too challenging? Were the other children as abhorrent as they were when I attended? _But before my probing questions of the Finch children got the better of me, I recalled on what my father had told me earlier today.

There was going to be a trial in Maycomb. Apparently there was a Negro being accused of rape by Mr. Ewell's eldest daughter, and that Negro was going to be represented in court by Mr. Finch. I didn't know much about the Ewells, or even Mr. Finch, other then what I heard from my father once in a while at dinner.

"It's all a risky business, Arthur," my father stated loudly from the dinner table. I sat humbly at the windowsill, wondering whether to eat, read, or sleep. While contemplating this decision, however, I found myself stuck in a one-sided conversation.

"You should be grateful your mother and I had the ability to protect you from all the nonsense of this town," then he added, "Join me at the table, Arthur, your food's getting as cold as you," but I wasn't hungry, and I had no intention of making eye contact. So I remained at the sill, staring blankly out the window as night fell, thinking on my children from across the street.

The awkward silence that followed his words was nothing short of palpable. I almost wanted to apologize for not responding, but then again, I apologized too much for too little. Though I didn't mind the unsettling peace that came after his biased speeches of Maycomb, I had to know more about the trial.

"You said Mr. Finch was going to be involved in the Ewell's trial?" I asked.

"It's a crying shame, too, the man was pretty decent. Wasn't someone I could carry on a conversation with, mind you, but I suppose Atticus was respectable." My father had a way with making others seem condemned.

"How do you think the trial will turn out?" Another awkward silence came after my inquiry, and I knew I had made a wrong turn in my 21 questions. I heard the sound of metal clashing porcelain, and prepared myself for my father's interrogations.

"Why do you keep asking me so many goddamn questions? Is it because of Atticus' brats across the street?" I retreated to silence again, keeping a firm grip on the window curtains.

"You know how spoiled Atticus made them? Letting them run around and meddle in the yards with their toys… They don't even call him 'Father'! I hear them when I come home, going 'Atticus' this, and 'Atticus' that… I tell you, It ain't natural.." Still silence. "Then again, why should they call him 'Father'? He leaves them with the Negro, never takes them anywhere-"

"You never take me anywhere." Once again, I had made a mistake.

"And where would I take you, Arthur? You know the minute I take you past the front porch, the whole town will be all over you, especially Atticus' brats, and hear this, you know what I hear then call you, what the whole town calls you? 'Boo Radley'! 'Boo'! As if the trial coming up wasn't enough of a spectacle, I'll be walking down the main street with the ghost of Maycomb, imagine that!" I watched the branches of the oak trees outside sway with the night breeze. It was almost mesmerizing.

"The children aren't the ones who turned me into 'Boo'"

Before I could give him time to answer I was making my way up the stairs to my bedroom. All the while I thought to myself about Mr. Finch's children. The more I thought, the more I understood that there was something more that happened during their day than mere child's play. I didn't know much about my hometown, but I knew that an event like the upcoming trial was not something that would give the Finch children any strong friendships.

Soon I was summarizing their day at school in my head. I saw the children going to school in clean clothing with nothing more than a slight frown on each of their faces, and I saw them sulking home later in the afternoon, covered in dirt. From the days I spent long ago in school, I learned children can say and act upon some pretty silly things, no matter if they pick it up from their parents, or their peers. The other children had to know about the trial, about the Negro, and about Mr. Atticus Finch in his defense. Their days at school must have been awful!

Then I remembered how they ran. Away from me, and away from my home. And it hurt. They couldn't let someone else's words affect their feelings towards their father or me. They couldn't grow distant and lose hope. Their hope was what made them beautiful, and I didn't know what I would do if they were to lose their beauty.

_I had to do something_, I thought as I stared out my bedroom window at the ominous oak trees. _I had to show them there was hope for them and their home_, _I had to tell them not to be afraid, I had to show them I care_.

Then I spotted the knothole in the left oak tree.

_I know what to do_.


End file.
